Vada lot I got
Delicious memories flood back of a rich childhood
HOT from the oil, golden crisp and crunchy, the real treat of the afternoon “flesh” prayers — a tribute to the mother — were my granny’s vadas.
She used to deep-fry these spicy flattened fritters, which were speckled with red and green chillies, in a wok-type cast-iron kadai. The cooking ritual is etched in my memory and is the pride of my lineage.
My paternal grandmother, Kanniamma Govindarajulu, was a matriarch of silent majesty. She was barely 1.6m tall, but she rarely let anyone near the kadai.
Her sari hitched and gathered between her thighs, she sat on her haunches over the leaping fire in our Chatsworth back yard.
In one hand she held a little square of banana leaf. In the other she balled the pungent wet mixture of stoneground dried peas, onions, chillies, coriander, cumin and a host of other spices.
Everything was hand-ground on a block of heirloom granite, the revered ammikal. The spicy ball was slapped on the banana leaf to be flattened into a plump little disc. The final flourish was sticking her ring finger into the centre to poke a hole right through.
The delicate formation was then slid off the banana leaf into the crackling oil. As half a dozen batches cooked, they were theatrically scooped out with an enamel sieve-type ladle to form a growing mountain in a dish alongside.
Not even the favoured grandchildren were allowed to touch them until the vada had been offered to the goddess in the afternoon prayers.
The morning ritual was the pouring of the sour porridge, along with vegetable curries, to honour the mother goddess who had rescued the faithful from a smallpox plague.
The prancing roosters we slaughtered as offerings to the mother were cooked for hours on open fires for the afternoon feast. The vada, however, occupied centre stage.
The crispiness outside gave way to a moist core bursting with a spicy, nutty, salty and sensational crumbliness that overwhelmed the eager mouth.
The matter of the hole still stokes fiery debate. Some put it down to religious, ethnic or even sexual symbolism.
Other clans use three closed fingers to make an indentation similar to the forehead ash markings of Saivites.
In my unlettered granny’s greater wisdom, I suspect that it served only to cook the vada right through, like the hole in a doughnut.
The one mannerism through which the Govindarajulu bloodline stands out is that the vada is eaten pressed by thumb and two fingers against a fried globe of sweet flour paste we call oorinda, or to use my mother’s tongue, goolgoola. It’s our version of sweet and sour.
The vada also appears on other occasions such as Purtassi and Kavady, when we pay homage to our ancestors, and sometimes even Diwali. Now and then it is doled out on cold winter afternoons with piping hot tea.
Compliments have always poured in for my granny’s vadas. The Govindarajulus freely share the recipe — minus a few ingredients of course.
Here is the recipe, as recalled by my sister, Ravathy Naidoo. She is the five-year-old in the centre of the picture:
Ingredients
1kg dried split-pea dhal soaked overnight 1 bunch dhania (chopped) 5 green chillies (finely chopped) 5 red chillies (finely chopped) 1 bunch spring onions (finely chopped) 2 onions (finely chopped) 2 tablespoons salt 1 tablespoon jeera Sunflower oil
Method
Grind dhal on a stone to a rough pulp. (A food processor will do but it won’t make for a good story.)
Fold the rest of the ingredients into the dhal and grind further without getting the mixture too fine.
Extract in golf ball sizes and pat into a small disc on a square of banana leaf.
Fry in batches in deep, moderately hot oil until golden brown and crisp. For best results, use a cast-iron kadai and open fire.
Serve hot on a platter lined with a paper towel. The quantity obtained depends on the temperament and generosity of the cook. It is recommended to serve them with goolgoolas, for which a vetkoek recipe should do the trick. Mainstay optional.
KIRU NAIDOO is a communications specialist with a serious food habit.